"What?" Rocco staggered to his feet, pulse racing once more. For the first time in his life he found himself terrified of something other than his father. Rocco was scared shitless over Whitney's safety.
"Yeah, I figured that you needed someone to help you step up. I know it's been hard on us since we found out about the injustice done to dad, so it's no wonder you're off your game. That's why teamwork is so important. I called my friend Mikhail, and he's eager to join the team and help us out. Isn't that great?"
Teamwork? Mikhail? The Russian was dirty and dangerous, and if Whitney was anywhere near him, her life was on the line. Rocco's face contorted with rage, but he was unable to act on his impulses. Instead, he rushed Arturo, yanked the car keys out of his pocket, and stormed from the room.
"Lombardo," Officer Hulsey barked as he made down the hallway and back for the entrance. "What about your brother?"
"He can stay," Rocco seethed. "I've got shit I need to get to right away. I just found out he's gone behind my back and fucked up some of the business I was tending to."
"Goddamn Lombardos," Hulsey muttered. "You make sure you check out with Mike before you leave. We need to make sure your weasel asses are out of the building."
Rocco's weasel ass was out. And until he was sure Whitney was safe, he wouldn't be coming back.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Whitney
The thud of bass ran through her body and reverberated in Whitney's ribcage - a typical sensation while working at The Avenue. But why was she sleeping there? Why was she so groggy? Had someone slipped her a roofie?
Whitney opened her eyes, but there was no light. Wherever she'd crawled up to sleep off her high was sequestered away. And it was cramped. When she went to roll over, she found herself hitting a curved wall.
Where was this?
The floor she laid on was lightly carpeted and hard. When she reached overhead, the low hanging ceiling and the strangely curved wall was carpeted as well. What was this place?
Groggy, Whitney rolled over. Bright daylight crept in from thin, symmetrical gaps. Before she had time to understand what she was looking at, the whole room shook violently, and Whitney was thrown up off the ground and hit the ceiling.
The thudding bass. The carpeting. The light. The turbulence. It came to her all at once - this was the trunk of a car.
The Russian.
Whitney's fingers traced along her head. There was pain there, and as she explored the area, she found tacky spots. Blood. She had been bleeding from where Mikhail had hit her. Whitney let her hand drop away and lay still on the floor of the trunk, doing her best to regain the full scope of her senses. It was going to take everything she had if she wanted to walk out of this alive. There was no time to be delirious and confused.
Beyond the pain along her scalp where Mikhail had hit her and split her skin, Whitney's throat was on fire. If only she had a glass of water to sooth it. That was off the table. She was going to have to make due without.
Why was this happening?
As Whitney went over what she knew, the thudding of the base stopped, and the car cruised to a halt. The engine died. For a long moment she was left in silence, but no moment could last forever.
The sound of a key fitted into the lock of the trunk was loud, like it was attached to a bullhorn. Her eyes focused on the source of the sound. When the lid sprung up and light flooded the trunk, Whitney was not prepared. She squinted and pressed back against the tiny space, but there was no escape. Mikhail, a dark silhouette against the light, leered down at her.
"Mishka is awake," he laughed. "Good, good. Would be better to wake up on set before camera, but is not least desirable circumstance, either. Is good. Now to get our little mouse to her final act."
"N-no," Whitney begged. Words illustrated just how sore and prickly her throat was, and she swallowed what little saliva was in her mouth. It did nothing.
"Yes, yes! Mikhail will make you star. So many men will love you. Is this not what you want?"
Whitney had a feeling that even if she objected, he wouldn't listen. A man who would chase her down, smear blood across her face, and then knock her out wasn't the kind who took no for an answer. All she could do was choke back a terrified sob and huddle against the back of the trunk. Mikhail was not fazed.
"Come to me now," he ordered. Not willing to wait for her to comply, he reached back and grabbed her by the arm. With no other support, he wrenched her forward. Pain seared through Whitney's arm and along her back as he pulled her, and she cried out in agony. Mikhail shook his head.
"Save for camera," he told her. "More screams make more money."
Once she was in range, Mikhail reached in and lifted her from beneath her arms. Like a slab of meat, he dragged Whitney out of the trunk, then with a grunt and a bend in his legs, he hefted her over his shoulder like she was a bag of flour. Unable to bring herself to a stop, Whitney's torso slapped against his back and the wind was knocked from her lungs.
"Good girls stay quiet until it is time to scream," Mikhail said, jovial, as though they were on their way to share a few drinks and some good conversation rather that whatever twisted scenario he planned. "Arturo was right, pretty girl is excellent price."
Arturo.
As Whitney gasped for breath and twisted and squirmed against Mikhail's firm grasp, relief flooded her. No matter what was about to happen to her, she could cling to the small comfort of knowing that it wasn't Rocco who'd done this. There was one person in this world who'd been decent to her. Rocco was no prince, no saint, and the circumstances of their meeting were a black mark against him, but he'd redeemed himself in the end. Rocco was someone special. If only he'd taken her with him...
Slung over Mikhail's shoulder as she was, Whitney wasn't able to get a good view at where they'd come to a stop. The smell of the air reminded her of the warehouse that Rocco had brought her to the night before. If Arturo was involved, Mikhail might have brought her to a similar hideout. When they rose the short cement staircase and entered through a heavy metal door, Whitney thought it more likely. Was there a derelict warehouse along the shoreline that the Lombardos didn't own? The city really was under their thumb.
"What size does the little mouse wear?" Mikhail asked. "Small? Medium? I have little blue lingerie set for you, will be pretty. Will be perfect."
"I just want to go home," Whitney rasped. The words caught in her throat and irritated it, adding to its dryness. "Call Rocco, please. He'll tell you to let me go."
"Is too late now," Mikhail exclaimed. They walked through an open area. The few dangling bulbs that still worked in the place created more shadow than light. The setting was exactly like a horror movie. Whitney hung her head and tried to focus. If she could hold back on panicking, she could think her way through this and get out, just like she'd done with Rocco. "Now pretty girl belongs to me."
"Does she?" A stern voice cut through the darkness, and Mikhail came to a swift stop. "Cuz I'm thinking that you're full of shit. I'm thinking that the lady belongs to me."
There was seething anger in Rocco's voice. Whitney twisted around just in time to see Rocco step out from the shadows. Although he was dressed in the casual attire he'd worn out of the safe house that morning, he was no less intimidating than he was in a crisp suit while armed. The way he crossed his arms over his chest, how his posture was board straight, and the confidence in his shoulders and stance were all Rocco needed to look dangerous. At that moment he looked downright lethal. Expression beyond pissed, eyes narrowed slits of hate, he stared Mikhail down.
"R-Rocco," Mikhail stammered. "Did not expect to see you here."
"And I didn't expect to see you with my girl," Rocco shot back, "but sometimes life leads us to unpleasant surprises. Lemme try to make sure there are no surprises coming up in your future. Here's the deal. I know my brother told you that you could have her, but my brother is a pompous asswad psychopath who doesn't understand the consequences of his actions. Unfortunately, the consequences of his actions directly affect you. So here's how it's gonna work. You let the girl go, give her over to me right here, right now, and all's gonna be forgiven. You can go home, I can go home, she can go home, and we're all happy. Or if not happy, at least alive. You see, my brother isn't the one who runs this little business - I do. So if you wanna get on his ass about a sour deal, then you take it up with him, but I can't let this transaction happen."
Rocco. Against all odds, Rocco was here. Tears of relief streamed from Whitney's eyes and down her cheeks, but she could not bring herself to sob.